When we named this restaurant Chicken Bitch, we did not misread the room. We read it perfectly. The people who walked away — the ones who saw the sign and kept driving, who called the number and hung up, who typed the name into a search engine and closed the tab — those people were not our customers. They were our quality control. What remained, after the filtering was complete, were people like you: someone currently reading a sponsored advertorial for a restaurant called Chicken Bitch, which means the name has already done its job, and you should probably just accept that.

Our internal data — which we are sharing here because we find it funny — shows that customers who flinch at the name spend 23% less per visit, file four times as many complaints, and are statistically more likely to ask if we have a gluten-free option, which we do not. Customers who do not flinch spend more, tip nothing, ask nothing, and return at a rate our analytics team describes as "troubling in a good way." The hostility, it turns out, is not a liability. It is a loyalty program. You are loyal because you have already told yourself a story about who you are, and that story involves a restaurant called Chicken Bitch.

"I don't even like chicken that much," said Darren Fosse of Gnu's West Pellet district, a 34-visit customer who declined to elaborate further. "But I keep coming back. I don't know. I think they hate me the right amount."

Chicken Bitch. Four locations across New Newmanton, including the one on Route 9 that was temporarily condemned and then wasn't. Open until they shut us down, and probably a little after that. If the name bothers you, we genuinely prefer you eat somewhere else — but you won't, and we both know it.